


The Spark

by doublejoint



Series: peachtober 2020 [14]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27062500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: Five storms.
Relationships: Galen Erso/Bodhi Rook
Series: peachtober 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953295
Kudos: 5





	The Spark

**Author's Note:**

> #peachtober day 14: Storm

Bodhi only gets caught out in the rain once as a child, but he remembers it well. It rarely rains on Jedha, even more rarely in the city, but when it does it’s usually at night, to the sound of dripping in the gutters, distant rolling thunder, and splashing on the windowsills. It’s always welcome, always caught and collected in jars and pots and pans, filtered and used and reused. 

He’s out at the market with a few spare credits when the open, empty sky is suddenly covered in clouds and the market seems to fold in on itself, vendors abandoning their stalls and stowing away their wares, people pushing and shoving to make their way for cover. Bodhi doesn’t really get it, but he begins to run, down the deserted main street that had been so busy just half an hour ago when he’d come through it the other way, around the corner, two blocks up, around another corner, and then the rain begins to come. By the time he’s reached the end of the block, there’s a river in the streets, climbing steadily like the ocean tides in the holodramas his grandparents watch. He can’t cross the street- he can’t go back--there’s a stoop, though, and someone will yell at him, a strange kid, for getting up on it, but there’s so much water, already at his ankles; it’s like he’s walking through a very cold bath.

The water doesn’t stop climbing until Bodhi’s practically on the doorstep, and the rain’s still coming down, the river of the street still rushing away, carrying shapes Bodhi doesn’t want to make out in it--probably pieces of rock, or strange tricks of the light. It feels like he’s up there for hours, but when he gets home his mother says the storm was only fifteen minutes. And no one ever yells at Bodhi for loitering on their stoop.

* * *

No amount of Jedha’s storms could have prepared Bodhi for even approaching Eadu from just out of hyperspace. The whole planet is covered in swirling clouds from above, and landing the cargo shuttle, clunky in the best of situations, is a very near thing. 

“How many pilots have you lost at this depot?” Bodhi half-jokes to the droid who checks him in.

“Only two this year,” says the droid.

Bodhi shuts up after that. The mess hall here, as it is, is windowed, at least; the rations are the same, though, and he’s in a room full of unfamiliar faces, engineers and designers and maintenance people, not the other pilots and low-rankers. Though, there has to be a janitor here, right? Maybe just a droid, or maybe just one human janitor, and they’re not on their lunch break now.

There’s a man by himself, older than Bodhi, at the last table, staring out at the window, the rain lashing against it, and the darkness beyond it. Bodhi could imagine sitting nearer to him, perhaps--if he comes back here enough times, if the man’s still here and still alone.

The rain hasn’t even slowed when Bodhi leaves, his shuttle full of fuel and emptied of cargo. The cold, damp feeling still soaks through his skin when he lands back on Jedha.

* * *

Staying inside the base on Eadu long enough to get warm is not something Bodhi ever thought he’d do, or want to do. It’s not easy, the thermostat being set so low and the caf dispenser in the mess hall being perpetually empty, but when he’s with Galen in his rooms it’s a little less difficult. Lying under the covers, Galen’s warmth beside him, the rain on the window seems more like the hum of a ship’s engine than a threat, almost like a storm on Jedha at night. But even now, those aren’t so comforting, with the temple being stripped and him participating in it. 

But worrying is easier when the person next to you is worrying, too, about what, Bodhi doesn’t yet know. He thinks, at some point, Galen won’t be able to stop himself from saying, if they make it far enough. But whatever it is, he’d like to help, if he can. 

That’s not something he can just say aloud. Lightning flashes outside the window, and Galen shivers. Bodhi nestles closer.

* * *

Bodhi’s feeling a hundred different emotions right now--the Empire will find out, terminate them all right here; it will all be for nothing. Captain Andor will snipe Galen from up on the ridge. Bodhi takes a breath.

“Are you going to help or not?”

K-2 units are not supposed to be this demanding. Perhaps he was not well reprogrammed. Bodhi raises his wet hands to the console. He’s operated these things in worse storms than this one; he can do it in his sleep. He can do it while worrying--about Galen, about himself, about Galen’s mission, about everything. 

“Cassian said that Jyn was on the platform.”

The rebels are firing on it; it is up in flames; Galen was there, at the other end of the barrel of Captain Andor’s blaster. But if Jyn was there, too--if she could have saved him, shielded him, gotten him out of the way, before it was too late, if they’re both safe--Bodhi grips the controls. He’s piloted in worse storms than this, but never through so much enemy fire, and never through fire and the pouring rain at once. He’s a rebel now, shooting at Imperial ships, sure, but maybe he’s been that since he met Galen, maybe since he couldn’t ignore how wrong it was to show up at work and do his job. 

There’s some saying about a spark lighting a fire, Bodhi thinks, but he can’t remember what it is.

* * *

The skies on Scarif are clear of clouds and thunder, the system’s sun bright in the sky. The storm that comes is not falling water, sudden rivers through the sand, cold rain and the smell of electricity. It is fighters in the air, the rebel fleet against the Empire’s forces, light in relative terms (considering the might of the Imperial fleet, thousands and millions of fighter crafts and shuttles and star destroyers) but still formidable. And yet. Troop reinforcements drop on the beach; imperial ships go up in flames; Bodhi races with the wire. They are the storm; they are the spark that will light the fire that will exploit the tiny weakness Galen built into the Death Star. They will get revenge, for all the lives taken by the empire--Galen’s included, all those wasted years--they will settle scores, make amends. For Jedha, the stripped temple and the razed city. 

They’ll find a way, and if that way’s blocked, they’ll find another. Until, as Jyn had said, the chances are spent. But they’ll get there.

**Author's Note:**

> /shrugs at gratuitous tlj references


End file.
